


it runs in the family

by ViScribbler



Series: sweet prince [3]
Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Gay Undertones, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Paranoia, Retelling, dead dad angst, marcellus has a personality, paranormal happenings, the ghost scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViScribbler/pseuds/ViScribbler
Summary: we tend to bruise easily, mad in the bloodi'm telling you 'cause i just want you to know me, know me and my familyhamlet would do anything to talk to his father one last time.





	it runs in the family

It has been dark for some hours when Horatio hears a knock at the door. He rises and pulls his cloak on, fingers fumbling with the heavy clasp. He fishes his gloves out of his pocket as he crosses the room and opens the door. Marcellus stands outside, dark hair pulled back and his eyes especially yellow in the light of the torch he carried.

“Prince Hamlet is at the gates,” he says, glancing down the hall.

“Nervous?” Horatio asks him, his tone not quite as light as intended. 

He isn’t  _ scared,  _ exactly, but there’s a kind of energy in him that’s making him uneasy. Truth to be told, he isn’t sure if the fact that ghosts are real has quite set in yet- or if he believes it at all. Though, he’d seen it with his own eyes, and what could he trust if not his own senses?

Marcellus starts walking, and Horatio follows, next to him, but slightly behind. Marcellus knows the labyrinth that is the Danish castle far better than Horatio, so he figures he should let him lead. It’s a minute before Marcellus answers his question.

“A bit, if I’m to be honest. Less so of the supernatural and more so of the state of Denmark,” he says grimly.

“How so?” Horatio questions.

Marcellus grimaces.

“If the ghost truly is the late King Hamlet, he must have some reason for returning. If everything was well, there would be no reason to return to the mortal world,” he explains as they turn a corner.

“You seem to know a lot about ghosts for one only recently convinced of their existence,” Horatio teases lightly.

“I’m serious, Horatio. Run the thought through your enlightened mind for half a second,” Marcellus urges.

Shadows dance in the corners of the long corridor, shying away from the torch’s light. A chill passes through Horatio’s body.

“I suppose,” he says slowly. “Perhaps the reason he’s returning is Hamlet.”

“In what way?” Marcellus asks.

They reach a spiral staircase and start to head down.

“For a goodbye, of sorts,” Horatio says, tucking a curl behind his ear with a gloved hand. “A bit of closure.”

Marcellus shakes his head, ponytail swaying.

“What more closure does he need?” he asks. “He’s seen his body. He’s been to his funeral. It’s been months.”

“Hardly,” Horatio scoffs.

“His mother has moved on,” Marcellus continues. “His uncle has. All of Denmark has. But not him.”

“They were close,” Horatio says quietly. “Very close.”

“I know,” Marcellus says, volume lowering as well. “Which is why I don’t think seeing his ghost will be all that beneficial to him. If we just let his grief run its course-”

“It won’t,” Horatio sighs. “You know it won’t. He’s getting more and more melancholy, not less and less.”

They exit the stairwell into the grand hall. In contrast with the rest of the castle, the hall is brightly lit and lively. Claudius and Gertrude are entertaining their guests, with food and drink set up all along the table, but mostly drink. The room is loud and the energy joyous. Claudius is telling some animated story, an almost comically large mug of mead in his hands. Servants are milling about, clearing glasses and tending to the fireplace, and drunken nobles dance and come and go. Horatio and Marcellus couldn’t be less conspicuous if they tried. They head to the front doors, but Marcellus stops short, turning to Horatio.

“I don’t like this, Horatio. I don’t like this one bit,” he admits, brow furrowed.

“Neither do I,” Horatio assures him. He lowers his voice further. “But what are we to do? Prince Hamlet already knows of the ghost and its course. If we back out at this point, all we do is leave him to face it alone.”

Marcellus drags his hand down his face tiredly.  
“You’re right, of course,” he sighs. “Let’s go.”

The opening of the front doors seems cacophonous to Horatio, but the guests hardly seem to notice. The drawbridge is down, and covered in a thin layer of snow. More is falling, thick and slow flakes lazily drifting to the ground. Bernardo is stationed just outside the doors, as he said he would be, and he nods to the two of them dutifully. They return his nod and head across the bridge. Bernardo shuts the doors behind them, and it’s suddenly very quiet, with nothing but the sound of the wind and of their boots crunching in the snow.

Hamlet is standing just outside the gates as he said he would be, his back to them, the wind whipping at his black cloak. He doesn’t turn around until they’re a few feet away from him. When he does, Horatio notices that his cheeks and nose are flushed red from the cold. In the bright light of Marcellus’s torch, his eyes resemble the sun shining on a frozen lake, gleaming and light. And cold. His sword is sheathed in his belt.

“My lord,” Marcellus greets him.

“Marcellus,” Hamlet says in turn. “Dear Horatio.”

Hamlet makes eye contact with Horatio, and Horatio expects to see some kind of incredulity in his expression, some kind of acknowledgement of the overwhelming strangeness of the situation. But there is none of that, only a stony seriousness.

“When will he appear?” Hamlet asks.

“Sometime between midnight and one,” Marcellus answers. “Witching hour.”

“When did you become an expert in the supernatural?” Horatio questions dryly.

It’s an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but it doesn’t seem to succeed.

“What time is it?” Hamlet asks.

“Almost midnight, I think,” Horatio answers.

“After,” Marcellus corrects him. “It struck when we were in the great hall. You probably didn’t hear it over the party.”

“Party?” Hamlet echoes. “What is this, the third night in a row?”

“The wedding isn’t for another week,” Marcellus says. “The guests expect to be entertained.”

“Yes, as I expect my uncle to drink copious amounts until the day his beleaguered body finally gives out,” Hamlet returns darkly. “My mother, too. What a pair they are.”

“That’s just how the Danes are,” Horatio says. “We drink, we party. We make fools of ourselves. It’s what we do.”

“Not you,” Hamlet points out. “Not I.”

“No,” Horatio agrees. “Not us.”

“But all the rest of the country, it seems,” Hamlet says, gaze locked bitterly on the castle behind them. “All of them, fuckin’ drunkards.”

“My lord,” Marcellus starts to say, but Hamlet cuts him off.

“Oh, I know. With all that scolding you do, Marcellus, you ought to be my mother,” Hamlet says, kicking the snow at his feet. “Perhaps it would be better if you were, rather than that old hag back in the castle.”

“You don’t mean that, my lord,” Horatio says quietly.

“Perhaps I don’t,” Hamlet says, with a bitter laugh. “I don’t seem to mean much of anything these days. My words just seem to disappear into smoke.  _ I want to go back to Wittenberg, Mother.  _ Gone.  _ I don’t think this wedding is such a good idea.  _ Did you hear something?  _ Maybe if we didn’t get drunk every night, other countries would take us seriously.  _ It’s like I never even spoke! When I’m king…”

Hamlet trails off, shaking his head. Horatio realizes that he doesn’t think he’s ever heard him really talk about becoming king. It will happen, certainly; the King of Denmark is elected, but Hamlet is loved by the people, and there’s really no one better suited.

“I digress,” he chuckles, pushing back the hair the wind is blowing into his face.

There’s a moment of quiet, the muted sounds of the din from the great hall just bearly audible. Horatio rubs his gloved hands together, hoping the friction will create some kind of heat. Then- he sees it, a couple yards behind Hamlet.

“Look,” he breathes.

Hamlet turns sharply, holding his arms protectively in front of Horatio and Marcellus. The apparition looks like fog, at first, but like no fog Horatio’s ever seen; thick, and  _ glowing _ , with the same intensity as the full moon. It swirls and rises as the three of them watch in awe, and slowly takes a vaguely human shape, still shifting, still being molded. Horatio’s chest feels tight, his heart pounding as it did during his first encounter. It’s a moment before any of them can speak.

“Spirit!” Hamlet calls, the sound startling. “Why are you here?”

The ghost does not answer.

“Are you Hamlet I?”

More silence.

“Why are you here? Are you King Hamlet?”

Slowly, details are becoming visible, like the embellishments on his coat, the hair in his beard.

“Why the hell are you here?” Hamlet demands. “Answer me!”

And when the spirit’s face is finally formed, it’s undeniably the late King Hamlet, in all his glory. Horatio has seen his face before, on coins and prints, and this felt exactly like that; not quite there, more like an artist’s rendition, but clearly him. 

“Father?” Hamlet whispers.

Slowly, the ghost nods his head. Hamlet exhales shakily, and Horatio realizes there are tears in his eyes, silver in the light the specter gives off. The ghost watches him somberly.

“Father, why are you here?” Hamlet asks again, more pleading than demanding.

The ghost makes a beckoning motion, then points to the nearby edge of the woods.

“He wants you to go with him,” Horatio says, having found his voice.

“Don’t,” Marcellus says sharply.

“I don’t think he’ll speak if you two are here,” Hamlet says, not taking his eyes off the ghost. “I need to go with him.”

“Please don’t,” Horatio urges him. “I don’t trust this one bit.”

“He’s my  _ father,  _ Horatio,” Hamlet says.

“He  _ looks  _ like your father, my lord,” Horatio counters.

“He _is_ my father and I’m _going,_ ” Hamlet snaps. “Don’t try and stop me.”

Seeming satisfied with this, the ghost starts to float towards the woods. Hamlet starts after him.

“My lord!” Horatio says sharply. “It’s not safe-”

Hamlet turns to face him.

“And what do I have to lose, Horatio?” Hamlet demands, hands spread. “Huh?”

He turns to go, but Marcellus grabs his arm.

“Let me  _ go! _ ”

“My lord-”

Hamlet tries to pull away from him, but Marcellus holds steady. There’s fire raging in his eyes.

“If you just listen-”

“ _ Let me go! _ ”

“For one second-”

“I’ll kill you!”

There’s the sound of metal scraping as Hamlet draws his sword with his free arm, his left, and points it at Marcellus, who lets go.

“I swear to God I’ll kill you,” he snarls. “I’ll fucking do it. Don’t try and stop me.”

“My lord,” Horatio tries.

Hamlet turns the sword to him wildly.

“You too, Horatio, don’t think I won’t,” he snaps.

He glances over his shoulder and, seeing that the ghost is nearly at the woods, turns and sprints.

“My lord!” Horatio calls.

He glances back, but does not stop, and soon he’s disappeared into the trees. Horatio and Marcellus just stand and stare for a moment, breath freezing in the winter air. Horatio glances back at Marcellus, who shakes his head.

“He’s gone absolutely mad,” he says in wonder.

“We- we have to follow him,” Horatio realizes, regaining his urgency. “That spirit could drive him insane or- or lead him off a cliff-”

“Let’s go,” Marcellus says. “Hold the torch, Horatio.”

Horatio accepts the torch from Marcellus as he draws his sword from under his cloak.

“You had your sword the whole time?” Horatio asks, surprised. “Why didn’t you draw it?”

“He wouldn’t have done it,” Marcellus answers with certainty as they head to where Hamlet disappeared. “And if he had, I would rather him kill me than I, him. I swore to protect him years ago. I trust him. He trusts me. He is not well in the head at the moment. If I harmed him in a moment like that, I couldn’t live with myself.”

He shakes his head.

“I suppose it sounds irrational.”

“No, I understand,” Horatio says quickly, and he does. 

They search for what feels like hours. Horatio’s fingers quickly go numb, and he finds himself using the torch more for heat than for vision. The forest is dark and thick, and Horatio has the sneaking suspicion they’re going in circles. They call out for Hamlet until Horatio’s voice is hoarse.

“Perhaps we should head back to the castle and alert everyone else about the situation,” he suggests, once he can’t feel his feet anymore.

“Prince Hamlet might genuinely kill us if word reaches his mother about this,” Marcellus says grimly.

“Well, we need to do  _ something, _ ” Horatio says. “Lord knows if he’s conscious or-”

“Or perhaps he’s already back at the castle, and we’ve just missed him,” Marcellus contemplates. 

“But we don’t know that,” Horatio points out, voice raising in desperation. “God, he could be freezing to death out there, Marcellus! I’d rather risk invoking his wrath then have him dead from hypothermia!”

“Horatio-”

“We have to-”

“ _ Horatio! _ Is that- can you tell if…?”

Horatio turns to see where he’s looking. There’s something dark huddled near the ground, blending in with the dark surroundings. For a moment Horatio thinks it might be a rock or a bush, but then he sees a sliver of moonlight reflecting off of blonde hair. He’s moving before he even really processes it, and in an instant is dropping down to his knees in the snow beside him.

“My lord,” he breathes.

Hamlet is on his knees, arms wrapped around himself and head bent almost to the snow-coated ground. He’s shivering, and for a moment Horatio’s not sure if he’s conscious, but he raises his head slightly at the sound of Horatio’s voice, eyes opening.

“Horatio?” he asks quietly, voice weak.

“Thank God,” is all Horatio can say. “Thank  _ God,  _ my lord.”

Hamlet’s face is pale, and he can tell from the redness of his eyes that he’s been crying.

“Are you alright?” Marcellus asks quietly.

Hamlet blinks, looking disoriented, eyes wide and brow furrowed.

“Yes,” he says faintly, sounding distant. “Yes, yes, I’m alright.”

He rises to his feet and Horatio follows. He stumbles immediately, Horatio catching him by the arms before he can fall.

“I’m quite alright,” he repeats, steadying himself. “Just a bit-”

He brushes snow off of his pants with trembling hands.

“Just a bit weak on my feet,” he chuckles.

He smiles, but something’s off. He won’t meet Horatio’s eyes. Usually, Hamlet always makes eye contact, a near uncomfortable amount.

“What did it tell you?” Marcellus asks.

“Huh?” Hamlet responds, shaking snow out of his cloak.

“The ghost, my lord,” Marcellus says.

Hamlet laughs, which quickly turns to a cough.

“My father. Right. Of course. He-” he hesitates. “He told me that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

Horatio and Marcellus share a look.

“Well, one hardly needs to be a messenger from the afterlife to know that, my lord,” Horatio points out.

“You speak the truth, Horatio,” Hamlet agrees. “The truth, and only the truth, as usual- and that’s what worries me.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Horario admits cautiously.

“I mean that this can’t get out,” Hamlet says, voice tinged with desperation. “Neither of you can breathe a word of what happened here tonight to a single soul. If you must lie straight to my uncle’s face, then do so. If either of you are truly loyal to me, then you won’t even  _ think _ about it.”

Horatio nods.

“Of course, my lord.”

Marcellus seems more doubtful.

“Lie to the King, my lord?” he questions. “I’m not sure-“

“You must be sure,” Hamlet says coldly.

“It really depends on the severity of the-“

“It depends on  _ nothing _ , Marcellus!” Hamlet explodes. “Where does your loyalty lie? You are  _ my  _ guard, not that incestuous backstabber’s!”

Marcellus does not answer for a moment. He regards Hamlet. Horatio is certain now that there is something wrong with him. Something has happened.

“Alright,” Marcellus says evenly. “I won’t tell.”

Hamlet’s harried gaze glances between Marcellus to Horatio, then back again. He nods, seemingly to himself.

“Swear it,” he demands.

Horatio glances to Marcellus.

“I swear,” he says.

“As do I,” Marcellus says.

Hamlet shakes his head.

“No. No, swear it- swear it on my sword,” he says, removing the weapon in question from his sheath.

It’s a beautiful thing, delicately ornate but still elegant and sleek, and not so decorative that it doesn’t serve its purpose. Horatio has no doubt it’s a Danish heirloom, something of great cultural significance. And it certainly is important to Hamlet. Horatio rarely sees him without it. 

“Alright,” Horatio agrees. “I swear on your sword I will not say a word.”

Hamlet turns to Marcellus expectantly. Marcellus inclines his head.

“As do I.”

“Goddamnit, Marcellus, say it properly!” Hamlet snaps. “This isn’t- this isn’t me- I’m not being unreasonable here. You don’t understand the severity-“

“Then  _ explain  _ to me the severity, my lord-“

“Not until you  _ swear it _ !”

His last demand echoes off the snow-coated trees. He seems to realize the level to which he’s brought the conversation to. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, gaze trained on the ground.

“Please,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry anymore. He sounds scared.

Something softens in Marcellus’s expression.

“My lord-” he hesitates. “Alright. I swear on your sword I won’t say a word. God be my witness.”

“If He’s with us at all anymore,” Hamlet remarks grimly.

“What happened, sweet lord?” Horatio asks gently.

Hamlet’s gaze scans the forest, then takes a quick detour behind him. His chest rises along with his shoulders, and they both drop as he exhales.

“My father…” he shakes his head. “My father told me that… that he didn’t die from a snake bite. They- I can’t explain why- it was… a coverup. For murder most foul.”

He pauses, and Horatio can hear the wind rifling through the branches. A chill travels down his spine.

“And because of that he now suffers in Purgatory,” he continues, eyes focused on nothing at all. “A good man… rotting in Purgatory. And-”

Hamlet grips the hilt of his sword tight.

“And he tasked me with avenging him. Finding his murderer and consigning them to the same fate.”

Horatio exchanges a glance with Marcellus. He looks as shocked as Horatio feels.

“Do you know who… you know. Did it?” Horatio asks.

Hamlet does not answer for a moment, and Horatio feels a chill run down his spine at the dull look in his eyes. He fears the answer. Hamlet shakes his head.

“I have… an idea,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But I know nothing for certain. All I know for certain is it must be done.”

And, somehow, it was at this exact moment Horatio knew he was in too far. It was surprising that it wasn’t the presence of an actual otherworldly being that triggered this realization, but perhaps that was because that still didn’t feel quite real. Or perhaps it was because the determined part of the look on Hamlet’s face told him how irreversibly tangled in this whole mess the prince was, and the terrified part of the look on his face told him that he would never be able to let Hamlet face this alone. He was caught. Caught in a game of royals that he should’ve had nothing to do with.

The trek back to the castle was deathly silent. Hamlet and Marcellus each maintained a steady grasp on their swords, as if the late king’s murderer was going to jump out of the undergrowth at any minute. Horatio walked in the middle, still holding the torch, though its flame was on the verge of death. The guards look on curiously as they enter, but they say nothing. Marcellus departs to the servants’ bedchambers with a respectful nod of his head, leaving Horatio alone with Hamlet.

“Would you accompany me…?” Hamlet asks awkwardly.

Horatio’s heart skips a beat as he realizes they haven’t had a chance to be alone since his father died. He realizes this great, towering  _ thing  _ between them seemed so small now in comparison to this horrifying new advancement. Still, the idea of being alone in Hamlet’s bedchambers sent his thoughts racing. Instead of articulating this, Horatio simply says,

“Of course, my lord.”

Hamlet’s bedchambers are as lavish as he would expect for a crown prince. Tapestries hang from the ceiling to the plush, carpeted floor, and the furniture is all ornate and trimmed with gold. Hamlet sits down heavily on the side of his bed, combing his fingers through his hair agitatedly. Horatio hovers awkwardly for a moment, somehow feeling sitting beside him would be somewhat sacrilegious.

“Please, sit down,” Hamlet says when he notices this.

He does, and they sit in silence for a moment. Hamlet inhales deeply.

“I didn’t want Marcellus to hear this part,” he says quietly. “I suddenly feel as if there’s no one in this whole damned palace I can trust besides you.”

“You don’t trust Marcellus?” Horatio asks, surprised.

“I trust him, but- not with this,” Hamlet says, shaking his head. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want to burden him with hiding treason.”

“Treason, my lord?” Horatio questions.

Silence once again. Hamlet’s gaze is pinned firmly on the tapestry on the wall in front of him, and Horatio realizes that it portrays the royal family- or how they must have been half a dozen years ago. There, woven in the cloth, is young Hamlet, a mischievous smile on his chubby, youthful face. On one side stands his mother, the Queen, her hair free of grey, and on the other, his father. It strikes Horatio just how much Hamlet Jr. looks like Hamlet Sr. There’s definitely a familial resemblance between Hamlet Sr. and Claudius, as well, and all three of them have the same piercing blue eyes.

“It’s a beautiful tapestry,” Horatio remarks.

“My mother made it for me many years ago,” Hamlet says.

He sets his jaw and shakes his head again, like a wet dog trying to shake the water off itself.

“Claudius killed my father,” he says suddenly. “He poisoned him in the garden while he slept.”

Horatio’s head is reeling. It takes a moment for him to truly comprehend what he’s saying.

“The King killed your father?” he echoes breathlessly.

“In cold blood. My father told me himself,” Hamlet says through gritted teeth. “That son of a bitch took everything from him. His throne. His wealth. His  _ wife.  _ My no good faithless whore of a mother went and married the man who killed my goddamn father!”

Hamlet jumps to his feet, pacing across the room restlessly.

“It all makes sense now,” he says feverishly. “Why he never let me grieve. Why he set the wedding so close to the funeral. He wants Denmark to forget King Hamlet ever existed because he doesn’t want anyone questioning the circumstances of his death. I mean, a snake? In the royal gardens? What are the odds?”

“My lord…”

Hamlet turns back to face Horatio sharply.

“And now I have to kill him.”

Horatio swallows hard.

“Hold on, let’s, let’s think about this,” Horatio stammers. “He’s the king, my lord. You’ll be executed for treason.”

“You think I don’t know that, Horatio?” Hamlet snaps. “I know. I know this is all insane. But I have to do it. My own father is withering away in Purgatory. I have to do  _ something. _ ”

“Are you  _ sure  _ he killed him?” Horatio asks gingerly.

“Yes. I mean-” Hamlet starts pulling on his knuckles, cracking them one by one. “Mostly. I mean, my father seems to think- but I can’t- if I could just  _ prove  _ it. Somehow. But I-”

Hamlet collapses back on his bed defeatedly.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what to do.”

Horatio realizes from the trembling tone of his voice that he’s crying again. Hamlet angrily wipes his tears away and sniffs. Horatio carefully takes his hand in his, running his thumb over his knuckles comfortingly.

“We’ll figure it out,” he assures him softly. And he doesn’t know if that’s true, but he says it anyway.

“I can’t ask you to be a part of this,” Hamlet says stiffly. “I shouldn't have gotten you involved in the first place.”

“You can’t stop me from being there for you, my prince,” Horatio says.

The look in Hamlet’s eyes is almost glazed over. 

“Horatio, do you think…” Hamlet absently searches for another knuckle to crack. “Do you think my mother knew?”

Horatio’s stomach drops down to the Persian rug at his feet. He fumbles for something to say, but he finds nothing. What can he say? Instead, he settles for,

“I think this will all make more sense in the morning.”

Which is most definitely a lie. He can’t imagine any of this making sense, ever.

Hamlet just nods numbly. Horatio goes to stand, but Hamlet grabs his hand tightly.

“Stay with me,” he pleads. “Please.”

Horatio sits back down.

“Alright,” he agrees softly.

The bed is plenty big enough for the two of them to sleep without ever knowing the other is there, but instead they sleep huddled close together, arms touching and fingers still interlaced. Hamlet’s shifting and Horatio’s racing mind keeps him up for what seems like hours, until sometime in the early morning when sleep takes him and he drifts off. The things in his dreams have scales and sharp, sharp teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my hamlet series, where i rewrite hamlet scenes and consider, "hey, what if this was just a little more gay?"
> 
> this one-shot is absolutely rife with my own headcannons which have nothing to do with the actual canon, so if you're questioning "wait, is that in the play?" it most likely is absolutely not.
> 
> if you read modern icarus, this is continuation, so hopefully that uncomfortable sexual tension between hamlet and horatio is understandable.
> 
> stay tuned for (hopefully) more!


End file.
